


keep the bad things from you

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: So they go, and Eames fidgets, and then cries a little, and Arthur hands him a handkerchief and narrows his eyes at Beatrice’s hat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I live in London, and there was this pesky wedding on Friday, and I decided--although I'm probably not the only one--that Eames and Arthur went to the wedding, and I was going to write that fic. And then I wrote this fic, which is only tangentially related, involves fisting, feelings, and mild D/s & bondage themes, and I don't really know what to do with it except share.

They go because Eames is sorry, because he’d been invited and nearly forgotten, because Arthur loves beautiful clothes and Philip Treacy and putting on Eames’ cufflinks for him, straightening his tie pin. They go because Arthur lights up when he thinks about it, and because Father can’t really be bothered, and someone has to be there. They go because Alice wants to see them together, not just separately, and because it’s something Eames can do for Arthur, and because it’s an excuse to have exhibitionist sex on the plane. So they go, and Eames fidgets, and then cries a little, and Arthur hands him a handkerchief and narrows his eyes at Beatrice’s hat. And there’s the ceremony, and the luncheon reception, and Arthur pretends to be more comfortable than he is, which is all right because Eames is pretending, too.

It’s not really his world anymore, the parties and white gloves and ballroom dancing. But he’ll have to wear this mantle too, someday, and while eccentricity can always be forgiven in royalty, there are some things you just don’t miss, and one of them is the way Arthur smiles when Eames presses their knees together under the table.

“Mr Eames,” he says, and it’s more a caress than a warning.

“Mr Arthur,” Eames replies, inclining his head, looking up through his lashes. Arthur just shakes his head and keeps eating, but his knee stays where it is.

And then it’s over, and they can go home, and Arthur can say he’s met Eames’ family and the Queen in the same breath, and Eames can say he’s done his duty as his father’s heir. And they’re on their way home and Arthur kisses him in the cab, and Eames has a hard time forming thoughts, let alone words. “Inside,” Arthur says quietly. Eames fumbles the keys.

And he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it, thought about rings and hands and kneeling at Arthur’s side, giving himself up for all eternity, and letting everyone see. He wants it more now than he ever has, the terror of it singing in his bones, and he tries to say something about it, to say anything at all. Instead Arthur kisses him quiet, breathes into Eames’ mouth, like he’s thinking the same thing and it’s tearing him to pieces. “Take off your clothes,” Arthur says into his mouth, “and get on the bed.”

Eames pulls back, eyes sharp. “Why? What are you planning?”

Arthur kisses him again, gently, the buzz of it humming in the pit of Eames’ belly. “I’m thanking you properly,” he says. “Now do as you were told.”

Eames just looks at him for a moment, memorizing Arthur in this space, in this instant. His eyes are dark, but they go impossibly darker when Eames says “Yes, sir,” and turns on his heel. If this is how Arthur wants to thank him, Eames isn’t about to say no.

He never really does.

So he goes, shucking his tuxedo piece by piece, hanging everything on the clotheshorse to be put away later, and Arthur’s lucky he’s even doing that. He’s hard, but not aching, and there are other things on his mind; there’s too much to think about, what’s coming and what Arthur has planned and if Arthur will ever really know how scared Eames is that this is all a dream, that he wonders it every day, because Arthur is just so good.

He knows it’s real. He’s not delusional. He just wonders if there’s any universe out there in which he’s good enough for Arthur, too, and it makes him hurt, a little, inside.

“You didn’t do as I said, Mr Eames.” Arthur’s in the doorway. Eames is still standing naked, cock jutting out in front of him, and he shrugs a shoulder with nonchalance they both know is faked.

“On my way,” he says, crawling onto the bed, lying back. “Sorry, sir,” he says, cheeky, and Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t disobey me again,” Arthur breathes, and Eames has to swallow, hard. “Arms above your head.”

He goes without a word because this might be new, but he’s known it was coming. Arthur has leather cuffs to buckle around his wrist and loop through the headboard, quick and efficient, not too tight. Arthur also trusts him not to struggle, so he doesn’t, just tests the give once, for inspection. Arthur nods, satisfied, and kisses the fleshy part of Eames’ thumb before standing up and—walking away.

Eames swears. Fucking Arthur and his fucking patience.

“Hush,” Arthur calls down the hallway.

Eames’ nose twitches, but that’s all. He knows Arthur will never come back if Eames doesn’t settle. So he settles, breathes through his nose, and waits with his eyes resolutely closed.

When he opens them, Arthur is naked, beside him, and staring, and Eames smiles. “Don’t speak,” Arthur tells him. “Not unless—I hope you won’t need them, but—”

Eames nods. He’s never needed the safewords before, and doesn’t think he will now, but he understands and stretches under Arthur’s gaze.

“Good,” Arthur breathes. “So good, Eames.” He runs his hands down the planes of Eames’ chest, tracing the lines of ink in his skin—Eames needs an Arthur tattoo, he thinks, something only they two will recognize. “So good to me,” Arthus continues, kissing Eames’ shoulder, the winking Knave there. “I know you hate your title,” he continues. “I know you used it for me, today. To give me today. And I want to thank you,” he murmurs. “Give you something, too.” He’s moving down Eames’ body, mouthing every word into Eames’ skin. “If you can take it, that is,” he says somewhere near Eames’ cock, and Eames squirms. “Do you think you can? Can take my whole hand?”

Eames sucks in a breath, staring down the length of his body at Arthur, Arthur staring implacably back at him. Could he—fuck _yes_ , he could, and he nearly gives himself whiplash trying to nod. And Arthur smiles, quick and private, and busies himself with sucking a mark into Eames’ hipbone, under the _Hamlet_.

By the time Arthur gets around to starting, really starting, not just teasing and kissing and sucking until the skin is red beneath him, Eames is aching. He’s nearly bitten through his tongue trying to be quiet, and he knows why Arthur didn’t want him to speak, now, because he’ll never be able to form words at this rate, and if a garbled voice sound is the only thing Arthur hears, it’ll be enough. Not that Eames thinks he’ll need to stop. Not that he even _wants_ Arthur to stop, because Jesus Christ right there and when did he get three fingers deep and he does want more, he does, wants it all, tries to suck Arthur all the way into his body.

“Shh,” Arthur soothes, tucking his pinky in, twisting, flexing, and Eames makes a keening, but clearly wordless sound high in the back of his throat and oh god can he do this? can he take it for much longer, can he keep breathing, is he going to pass out and die because oh god so good and so much and he’ll come if Arthur so much as breathes on his cock and that’s a thumb and Jesus _Christ_ , here he goes and he almost swallows his tongue because Arthur is all the way in.

“God, _Eames_ ,” Arthur whispers, sounding as wrecked as Eames feels. “I didn’t—you’re doing so good, so incredibly well, you’re so—fuck, you’re gorgeous, you have no idea.” He moves inside Eames, experimentally, and Eames _shakes_ , it feels so good, every synapse firing. “Oh, fuck,” Arthur says, and it’s what Eames might say if he could. “All—all right? Eames, nod at me if you’re okay.”

Eames looks right at Arthur, eyes wide, and nods. Arthur moves his fingers again, and he’s wrist-fucking- _deep_ , of _course_ Eames is okay, okay down to his _bones_ , overfull and overwhelmed and all he can hear is the ringing in his ears as he comes, and comes, and comes, a howling sound ripping itself out of him, high and primal and so _fucking_ good.

“Christ, Eames,” Arthur whispers, and it echoes in his head. “I’m going to—pulling out now, okay, let me get you undone. You can—fuck, you can talk again, say something, say you’re okay.”

Eames almost sobs, Arthur’s last fingers slipping out of him, and he clenches around the emptiness. “Fine,” he mumbles. “ ‘M fine, Arthur—please, let me—you—empty, inside me, I want you to come inside me,” and Arthur’s breath hitches.

“Fuck, Eames, you just—you know you don’t have to—are you sure?”

He locks eyes with Arthur. “I’m _yours_ ,” he says through a tongue that feels like lead.

Arthur’s eyes go wide, inky black. “Fuck _yes_ , you’re mine,” he breathes, and he’s back between Eames’ legs in seconds, cuffs thrown aside, catching Eames’ mouth in a kiss as he pushes in, no resistance. It’s a scant handful of thrusts before he’s coming too, marking Eames, filling him up, claiming him, and Eames mutters garbled, happy nonsense as Arthur flops boneless onto his body, still softening inside Eames.

“Okay?” Arthur asks after a moment, because he’s Arthur. "I can get a cloth."

“Better than. Don't leave,” Eames confirms, and curls Arthur in closer, filthy and blissful. “Best thank you I’ve ever had.”

“ ‘S ‘cause you’re worth it,” Arthur replies, and is quiet.

Eames just pulls the duvet over both of them, and with Arthur all along his side it's easy to fall asleep. 


End file.
